


Night-Blooming Jasmine

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Presents As Female, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 22:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: Aziraphale knows what Crowley likes.  This makes it simple when it comes to things like planting a particular plant to please the Nanny; it complicates things when Crowley comes to thank Aziraphale.





	Night-Blooming Jasmine

**Author's Note:**

> It sounds more confusing than it actually is. Nanny is Crowley, Brother Francis is Aziraphale, and well. Things of a particular sort happens. Crowley is presenting female, and therefore, Crowley has female parts. So if that's not your cuppa, click that old back button now!

Aziraphale knows what Crowley likes. After this long, it’d be a shame if he didn’t. He knows that Crowley prefers hard liquor to gentle spirits; wine should be red, not white; food should be offered sparingly, and be sweet or savory, no vegetables in sight. 

He knows Crowley prefers greenery to actual flowers, lush and verdant and full. 

Nanny Ashtoreth prefers greenery to flowers as well, but he knows that, if presented with a flower, she will gladly accept it. Especially if it’s from Warlock--who she seems to absolutely adore--or from Brother Francis, whom she tolerates, at best. 

At the moment, though, Aziraphale is bored. Nanny has gone with the Dowlings on a week long excursion, mostly to keep young Master Warlock out of trouble and out of his parents’ notice. That has left Brother Francis alone at the manor for the length of the trip, although by the time the family returns, he hopes to have a surprise for the Nanny. 

He’s been working for a month or so now, and he’s finally seeing some results. A few little touches of miracle-working here and there had helped, too, but finally, the creepers are pulling the little plants up the trellis directly under Nanny’s window. By the time the Dowlings and Nanny get back, there should be a nice, healthy runner or two sprouting green leaves and little white buds of night-blooming jasmine. 

\-----

Crowley is trying very hard not to lose her patience. Warlock has been an absolute beast this week, misbehaving and trying to get his parents’ attention. Over the last five days, he has uprooted many bushes and plants, splashed out of the pool, nearly fallen  _ into _ the deep end of the pool, got sunburnt, got whiny and cranky because of the sunburn, and vomited twice after getting too hot and eating four hot dogs at once. 

He’s realizing exactly why the Dowlings were chosen; the child could have sprouted horns and a bloody tail and Dad would be too busy with “Mr. President” and Mum would be too busy drinking and shouting at Dad to even notice. It is entirely possible that, were she not ready to choke the child by his tonsils, that she might have actually felt sorry for the boy. 

“Nanny, I don’t feel good,” came the expected shout.

“Then come out of the sun and sit by me,” she calls out calmly, patting the blanket beside her. She’d made the Effort to fill in the feminine version of  _ Nanny, _ and so Crowley thought of himself as a she, just to make it easier on the boy. 

Warlock parked himself on the plaid blanket in the shade. He was carrying a large plastic cup of some frozen red ice and sugar concoction, and she glared. “I won’t ruin my dinner, Nanny,” Warlock promised. 

“If you spill that on my blanket, I shall be very upset with you, dear boy.” Pulling off her glove, she puts one hand on his face to judge his temperature. “You’re getting a little warm, Warlock. Perhaps you should consider coming back to the hotel where it’s cooler. You can watch television, or order a movie.” A nice family oriented movie, not at all the kind she would recommend. Mostly because the kind she would recommend were not on sale at the kiosk or the television service. 

“Dad said we’re leaving tomorrow,” Warlock pouts. “Mum said she’s not ready to go back yet, but Dad said we have to, no matter what.” 

Crowley has a suspicion that Harriet Dowling would like to stay very far away from both her husband and her child. “Won’t it be nice to be back home, with your own things, your own books and toys and television?”

“And Brother Francis, and his pigeons and his snails and his rosebushes!” Warlock chirps. “I miss the pigeons, Nanny, they’re so nice and he lets me feed them. Brother Francis says that they’re not that bad at all, that people only hate them because it reminds them how cruel they are. He said that pigeons were once like pets, all bred to be pretty, and then they just got set free or put out when people got tired of them.”

“Yes, that is true,” Nanny agrees. “And they’re quite delicious eating, too. Just a snap of their little necks, a quick plucking, and you’ve got a roast delicacy that’s to die for.” 

“But Brother Francis said they’re friends, and you can’t eat your friends!”

Crowley just smiles, and offers Warlock a napkin magicked up from the depths of her purse. “Don’t you listen to him, dear. You listen to me.”

\-----

When they get back to London, it is still hot. Parching, in fact, yet the Dowling estate seems to have the most well-groomed and green lawn around. “That Francis guy, he knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he dear?” Mr. Dowling asks as he carries in the suitcases for himself and his wife. 

“He sure seems to.” Harriet is more interested in the sideboard, two ice cubes, and a bottle of something nice to fill the glasses with. 

Nanny comes in last, carrying the suitcases for herself and Warlock, who has already scarpered off to find the gardener. “I’ll go and unpack for the boy,” Nanny says calmly, ignoring both parents as she heads up the stairs. “Shall I look in the kitchen for a late supper, or call for a takeaway?”

Harriet pauses in her drinking, looking as if she’d rather not have to make any decisions. “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you think is best for Warlock.” That seems to be the safe answer.

It’s also an answer Crowley has heard so very many times, in many variations.  _ Whatever is best for Warlock _ is pretty much Harriet Dowling’s default answer to any question Nanny asks. “Then I’ll call for a takeaway,” Crowley decides. “Best to give the staff time to prepare for breakfast tomorrow.”

As he heads upstairs, Crowley is already making a list of things to do. Make sure the cook knows they’re back, for one, because he doesn’t trust Harriet or Thaddeus to have done so. Make a grocery list, for the same reason. Check on Aziraphale, let him know they’re home so that they can have a brief chat. And see where Warlock wants dinner from. 

He stops by the boy’s room first, unloading the suitcase. There’s dirty laundry that goes in the hamper, clean shirts and shorts that get put away, and a bag of souvenirs that go on Warlock’s bed. The boy’s suitcase is tucked into the closet, and Crowley quickly smooths out the bedspread so that when it is bedtime, the bed, at least, will be ready. The last thing he does is open Warlock’s bedroom window, to let the room air out a bit.

It’s also the first thing she does in her own room, open the windows to let the breeze in. It’s a different scent in here, something light and exotic that she doesn’t remember having smelled here before. Leaning out the open window, he sees Warlock and Brother Francis--ridiculous, St. Francis would be rolling in his reliquaries--crouching by a trellis beneath the window. 

Little white buds dot the long green crawlers, and red-painted fingernails gently prod the single blossom that’s half open at the top of the trellis. 

“Nanny, look what Brother Francis did!” Warlock waves another white blossom up at her where she’s leaning out the window. “He said it started growing while we were gone, so it would be ready when we got back!” 

Crowley wants to scowl, but she can’t. She is secretly delighted by the new trellis under her window, and he leaves it cracked so the blossom’s scent could fill the bedroom. “Warlock, you better come inside for dinner. Your mother’s said to order takeaway, so you get to choose what you want tonight.”

“Yes!” Warlock leaps to his feet, not bothering to brush the dirt from his knees. “Can I come back tomorrow, Brother Francis? And see the pigeons?”

“Of course, young master!” Aziraphale looks up, tipping his hat to Crowley. “Ma’am, lovely to see you all back again.”

“I’m sure.” Crowley is smiling at the angel, though. “You’ve been keeping yourself busy. Fancy a meet tonight?”

“Usual place, then?” Aziraphale puts his hat back on, and wanders away. But he is smiling at the thought of seeing the demon again, despite himself. 

\-----

Crowley makes sure to tuck Warlock in but good. After takeaway from the closest Chinese, Crowley gives Warlock a bath, scrubbing him from head to toe, and then giving him ten minutes of splashing everything in sight as a compromise for being “good.” He lets the boy play video games until 9:30, then reads to him until ten. A lullaby--a real one, this time, not the spooky ones--and a glass of water later, and Crowley is turning out the lights as Warlock snores. 

She knows that tomorrow, there’s a business trip to Brighton, and the boy will be going with his mother and father, only this time, Nanny isn’t invited. Seems like it’s not a good idea to have Nanny around when there’s photographs being taken, because nobody wants the Dowlings to seem like they’re not the perfect parents.

That suits Crowley fine, but she does worry a bit about Warlock. 

However, it doesn’t stop her from stepping out at midnight onto the cobblestoned back patio, and then onto the neatly manicured grass as she walks to Aziraphale’s garden shed. He’s refurbished it, with the Dowlings’ permission, and there is a desk and a bed in there, along with the usual garden tools. 

And she has dressed quite carefully for this meeting. Gone are the severe tweed dresses and the sensible shoes; there’s no hat, and her hair is flowing freely down around her shoulders. Instead of sensible shoes, she’s wearing high heels, and in place of the tweed dress and coat, she’s wearing a black and red dress with a slit from ankle to hip. In short, she is showing off, teasing Aziraphale as a way to say thank you for the jasmine. 

Aziraphale has dressed quite carefully also. The spirit-gummed facial hair is gone, the accent is missing. The dirty coveralls are nowhere to be seen, and in their place are Aziraphale’s usual clothes. In his buttonhole is a sprig of pruned jasmine, and in his hands, a black hydrangea.

She stops at the door, leaning in the door frame and somehow managing to fill the entire frame. Her shoulder rests one one side, her ankles rest on the other. Her hip manages to lean about midway down, her arms are crossed over her chest, and her head is tilted enough to make her hair fall over her cheek and spill across her shoulder. “May I come in?” 

“Please do.” Aziraphale holds out his hand and takes hers, gently escorting her over the threshold and letting her hand rest lightly on his wrist as he leads her to sit in the chair by the desk. “This is for you.” 

A black hydrangea is damned unique, Crowley knows this. It’s the acidity of the soil that predicates the color of the bloom, blue or pink, although some of the engineered strains these days maintain their color despite the soil. Black hydrangeas were only created through dyeing a natural or silk hydrangea, and yet, this is naturally black. He knows Aziraphale has worked a minor miracle to make this happen, and he smiles as he inhales the fragrance. “It’s quite a miracle you could get it this color.” 

Aziraphale is pleased that Crowley is pleased. “It suits you.” He sits on the bed across from Crowley, their usual arrangement. He can’t help but notice that her legs are crossed, and the slit in the dress is showing Crowley’s leg from hip to ankle. He’s seen it before, but he’s never actually  _ noticed _ . “Did you have a pleasant trip?” 

“Thank you, too, for the jasmine.” Reaching out with the hydrangea, she trailed it lightly down Aziraphale’s face, brushing it over his cheek and then his mouth. “My whole room smells of it.”

The purr of her accent is another thing that Aziraphale has heard before, but never actually  _ noticed. _ And suddenly he is aware that Crowley has made the Entire Effort, because what he is  _ noticing _ , more than anything else, is the almost unnoticed smell on the air of jasmine and heat, a faint note of smoke or possibly brimstone, and something… something that he doesn’t quite place, but makes his tongue tingle and his mouth water. 

“Er, well, I’d hoped you’d appreciate it,” he agrees, and his hands rise to fidget with his perfectly-done bow tie. He knocks it askew, only to straighten it again before clearing his throat. “Warlock seems--”

“I don’t want to discuss the boy right now,” Crowley answers, and leans back into the chair. The pull of her body changed the draping of the fabric, pulling it even higher up on her thigh and exposing more of her legs to the cool night air. 

Aziraphale can see the tiny dots of gooseflesh prickling all over her skin, and before he stops himself, he puts a hand on her knee. He is warm, flushed, and his hand skims lightly up her thigh to smooth out the goosebumps. “Then what is it you wished to discuss?” he means for it to be a calm question, but his voice trembles as he asks. There is an answer, and then there is an Answer, and he is not sure which he’s hoping for. 

Instead of answering, Crowley catches Aziraphale’s hand just as he begins to pull it away. Rolling a bit closer in the chair, she presses his palm against her well-lubricated panties before letting them drift away like smoke. 

They both shudder as Aziraphale presses down hard. He knows what Crowley likes, after all, and if he hasn’t figured it out after six thousand years, well, what’s the point? She is already hot and slick and ready for him, which tells him what she really came down here for. He cups her plump lips, feeling their weight as he presses down on them again, barely stimulating her and making her quiver. 

He breathes a slow line of kisses around her neck, nosing her hair aside to lick down. The kisses are bare skims of his lips across her skin, tickling and teasing as he follows down her throat, and into the deep V of her cleavage. 

Crowley shifts in the chair, scooting closer to the edge and rubbing herself against Aziraphale’s hand. He won’t move his hand, he won’t slide a finger inside, and she’s trying to squirm her way into one of those two things happening, but he refuses to cooperate. Her entire body is flushing, skin reddening as she shivers. 

Aziraphale’s free hand slides along the outside of Crowley’s bare leg, then lifts it. Her knee rests over his shoulder, the cut of her dress falling to the other side entirely. She is naked now from the waist down, and her heels dig into his back. It’s driving her crazy, but he is limiting himself to places that are already revealed by her clothing. When he reaches the low collar of her blouse he stops kissing, and instead drags his fingers down her stomach, rubbing gently against the fabric of the dress before tugging open the gold belt at her waist. 

The metal links hit the floor with a loud clang, and Aziraphale follows suit, sliding from the edge of the bed onto his knees. Her dress falls a bit further open and reveals his hand, still pressed against her lips. Her thigh is pressed against his ear and his cheek, and to his delight, Crowley doesn’t need any encouragement to spread her legs a little wider and make room for him. 

Crowley’s arm is thrown back over the chair, fingers tangling in the spindles of the chair back. Her heel digs into Aziraphale’s shoulder, urging him closer. His hand is still pressed against her lips, and she is biting her lip to keep from biting his neck and leaving marks that couldn’t be explained by a wayward rake. She’s tantalized when she realizes that he hasn’t even taken off that damned coat from 18-whatever the hell, and she is basically naked under the dress. 

His breath is hot against her skin, and he finally, finally moves his hand, only to lick his palm clean of her juices, already dripping and sliding down her thighs and pooling underneath her on the chair seat. She doesn’t beg, not now anyway, because they need to be quiet out here. The last thing they need is for anyone from the house to catch the gardener banging the nanny. More importantly, they can’t afford anyone from their respective agencies catching them at this, either. 

For Crowley, it’s close to torture--and being a demon, she is an expert in that. Aziraphale’s mouth is only inches away from the place she most wants it, and he is tormenting her by going slowly, licking his hand, smiling up at her with electric eyes that almost glow in the dark. Her free hand reaches down, strokes through his hair, then grabs a handful of it and drags him in so that his face is crammed directly against her hot slit. 

Aziraphale knows what is coming as soon as he feels hands in his hair. He’s ready for it, and as soon as Crowley reels him in, Aziraphale’s tongue licks a broad swipe, from bottom to top. The heat and wet wash over him, his nose buried and nudging against her clit as he works his tongue inside. 

Crowley’s hand falls out of his hair then, and reaches down to spread the lips of her piussy open. Aziraphale moves her hand, stopping his licks and looking up at her. Shaking his head no, he picks up the gold belt from the floor and snaps it in half, using half the links on each wrist to bind them to the arm of the chair. He can’t have her touching and getting too loud, after all. “Do I need to gag you too, my dear?” he asks in a soft whisper, and Crowley’s answering glare is almost murderous. But she is silent, and Aziraphale rewards her by settling back on his knees and burrowing his tongue back between her lips. 

Straining against the belt would only make Aziraphale stop, and Crowley doesn’t want that at all. She is sweating, everywhere, and feeling it roll down her body is like a second set of hands touching her all over. It pools between her breasts then rolls down her chest, catching briefly in her navel before rolling over her stomach and into the crease of her thighs. The arm of the chair is digging into her palms, and her nails are leaving half-moons around the flesh of her thumb as she tries to push forward against Aziraphale’s busy tongue. 

He doesn’t let her. His palms brace on her thighs, holding her still as he does all the work. He rather likes Crowley like this, naked and wet and begging with everything except her tongue. Her legs are straining, her ass is nearly hanging off the edge of the chair, her nipples are hard enough to be seen through the dress, and she has twisted herself enough so that one breast peeks out of the deep V-neck. And she is dripping, everywhere, and he cannot get enough of it. 

His tongue presses in deeply, sucking hard, teeth-racking kisses along the outer edge of her lips. He licks over her clit, but never more than once, and never with enough pressure to do anything but tease her a little bit more. He bites her inner thigh, hard, enough to feel the blood rushing up to color the bitten skin. A ring of teeth marks circle the dark red skin, and by tomorrow, it’ll be a bruise. He knows Crowley won’t heal it, and he rubs over it now, pressing it down painfully. 

Crowley’s entire body jolts, and there’s a soft splintering as the chair’s handle is demolished. There’s hissing in the dark, but no words, and Aziraphale knows the hissing as much as he knows anything else. “Careful, my darling, that chair is a bit fragile.” He speaks the words into her skin, knowing she hears as his tongue squirms through the speech. The hissing fades, but the gold links hit the floor as Crowley’s gotten one hand free. 

She moves it back to his head, pressing more insistently against her. “Aziraphale, pleassssssssse,” she whispers, conscious of keeping her voice down as much as she could. 

Aziraphale rewards her with another sharp bite on the opposite thigh, where it rested over his shoulder. Catching her eye, Aziraphale licks his fingers, sliding two inside his mouth before removing them and pressing them quickly into her wet pussy. 

Crowley bites through her lip when his fingers sink inside her. Her fingernails scratch across his scalp, then the back of his neck to leave claw marks as she tries to urge him deeper. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to hiss as her sharp nails leave their scratches, and he squeezes her thigh a little roughly. “No marks where anyone can see,” he reminds her, and withdraws his fingers to give her a little spank on her exposed lips. “Your rules, my dear.” 

“Fuck the rules,” she snarls, but the venom is lost in the panting breaths that precede and follow the threat. Her fingers rub insistently over the mark on her thigh, grunting softly as the soreness reaches past her thigh and into her core where it wraps hotly around the throbbing pleasure Aziraphale’s tongue was bringing. “Fuck  _ me. _ ”

Aziraphale gives her another hard spank, the squelch of her juices splattering against both of them sounding filthy in the darkness. “Is that really what you want, Crowley? Me just pounding away at you until we both end up messy, or…” The next spank is drawn out, teasing. “Do you want my tongue and my fingers turning you into a quivering mess while I sit here, hard and aching, doing nothing but tending to your every… single… desire?” He pushed his fingers back into her pussy as he whispers to her, leaning in to hear her answer. 

Crowley sat up sharply, her nails digging into his shoulder as she dragged him up her body. Her mouth crushed hard against his, and there was another splintering sound as the other arm of the chair was turned into kindling. Crowley dragged Aziraphale’s hand onto her breast, squeezing his fingers around the nipple. “Touch me,” came the hoarse whisper, her snake-like tongue flickering around his earlobe. She bites down hard in the next second, then sucked it between her lips to soothe the sharp pain that had made him yelp. 

Aziraphale’s fingers sunk to the hilt into Crowley as she bit his ear. The hard bulge of his cock rubs insistently against Crowley’s thigh as his fingers plow into her, roughly twisting on their way out before bunching together on the easy glide back in. Her arm is around his neck now, and her neck is arched as it’s fallen all the way back. Her hair is plastering to her neck and her back, and he does want nothing more than to unbutton his trousers and sink into her wetness. 

But he doesn’t; he wants her more like this, shivering because of him, his tongue and his fingers making her want while he can watch her, catalog every single look and taste and feel, because these moments, when they are not really Crowley and Aziraphale, these are the only moments they’re allowed this. When it’s the nanny and the gardener, when it’s the dance-hall boy and the gentleman, his Lordship and the delivery boy, the bookshop owner and the quasi-Mafia man negotiating over the property, when they’re not an angel and a demon, they’re allowed this. 

His mouth found her breast easily, his tongue laving the hard nipple and guiding it between his teeth. He bites sharply, as he did on her thighs, as she did to his ear, and his eyes nearly cross as he feels her clench hard around his fingers. He sped up the thrusting, working a third finger in alongside the first two. 

Crowley kicks her shoes off,  _ finally _ , and her toes curl even as her heels dig into Aziraphale’s back. Her cries are muffled in his throat, bitten back and hoarse, but every bit as loud in his head as he can hear them. Half-strangled syllables of no particular words fall from her lips, and he sucks her nipple harder just to feel the clench of her pussy around his fingers. 

His thumb begins to rub at her clit between strokes, and Crowley bites his neck. He doesn’t admonish her, he doesn’t chastise her and remind her of the rules, because he is doing much the same. Every clench around his fingers drives him to push harder, and every grunt and cry is muffled against her breast. 

Clawing at his jacket, Crowley pulls Aziraphale back hard. Her nails dig into the collar of his coat for traction, jerking him around so that instead of her breath, his mouth landed against hers. Sticky red lip gloss glues their mouths together in a kiss, and Aziraphale’s thumb rolls her clit roughly between his thumb and fingers while they are thrusting. 

Her scream of orgasm is easily swallowed by Aziraphale, who keeps his fingers moving in slow, shallow thrusts to help her ride it out. He is close to bursting, feels Crowley’s hands sliding down the front of his trousers to cup the heavy weight of his cock. She rubs the head through his trousers, and Aziraphale feels no shame whatever when Crowley gets exactly what she wants and he is coming, too. 

There is a very long moment after they have both come, where the scent of Crowley’s sex is heavy in the air, that neither of them is actually thinking of anything. Somewhere in the darkness of the shed, a candle comes to life and casts a flickering flame over their debauched bodies. 

“Staying the night?” Aziraphale asks, though he knows the answer already. 

“I can’t, the boy might need me,” is the convenient answer, which is good because Crowley is running out of excuses. “But tomorrow night, the family is gone and I shan’t be going with them. If the offer is still open?”

Aziraphale smiles a lazy smile, but there is a sadness beneath it. “Of course it will be.” Tomorrow will bring another inevitable excuse, but that is all right. Aziraphale knows what Crowley likes, and the one thing he knows Crowley likes?

Is him.

The End


End file.
